


The Trouble with Rainbows

by manypastfrustrations



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gay Pride, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Pride Parades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manypastfrustrations/pseuds/manypastfrustrations
Summary: “I’ve been thinking,” said Crowley“Well done.” A pause as Crowley frowned, then, “Thinking about what?”“Pride.”“One of the seven deadly sins, yes,” Aziraphale said.“Not that one. Gay pride. The festival.”“With the rainbows? Why?”“I think we should go along this year.”-Basically exactly what it says on the tin. Crowley suggests they go to Pride, but Aziraphale has some misgivings. Fluffy times ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 290





	The Trouble with Rainbows

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Just so you know, I have ever been to the London Pride festival, so I have no idea what it's like. I'm basing it roughly off what Pride is like in my town, which is significantly smaller.
> 
> Also, full disclosure, I finished and uploaded this story at 2:30am without proofreading it properly. Or at all.
> 
> Happy reading!

It was a Friday afternoon, two years after Armageddon’t-even-think-about-it, eighteen months after Crowley moved into the bookshop, and half an hour after Aziraphale had closed said bookshop for the day. It was raining quite heavily, which Crowley liked because it was guaranteed to stir feelings of discontent amongst the general public, and which Aziraphale didn’t mind because it guaranteed that very few people would be out and about to wander into his shop.

Nevertheless, on this particular Friday afternoon, two rain-drenched young women walked up to the bookshop door and started knocking loudly.

They knocked for some time with no response. After a while, a call came from deep within the bookshop. “We’re closed!”

The young women looked at each other, and resumed pounding on the door. A minute later there was a grumble from within, and they heard footsteps approaching the door. It swung open and a demon glared at them through his sunglasses.

“Can’t you read the sign?” Crowley demanded. “We’re closed.”

He went to close the door again, but one of the young women stuck her hand out to keep it open. He stopped, and raised an eyebrow above his glasses at her. She started gabbling, trying to get the words out before he left. “We know, we’re sorry, we just wanted to give you this.”

Crowley frowned, opening the door again to look down at her hand. In it was grasped a crumpled, sodden piece of paper full of bright colours. He couldn’t read it at this angle. “What is it?” He didn’t sound impressed.

“We just thought you and, er, Mr Fell might like to come along.” She held the paper up higher, and Crowley reluctantly took it.

He squinted at the couple. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

The other woman spoke, shivering a bit. “We’re regulars.”

“Hmm.” He looked them up and down. “We don’t like regulars.”

“Sorry it’s a bit wet,” the first woman said. “You should come, it’ll be fun!”

And then they turned and were gone, leaving Crowley holding the piece of paper, which was now completely dry. “We’re still closed,” he muttered, locking the door pointedly and going back inside.

He squinted at the paper the women had given them. It was a leaflet advertising the London Pride Parade, which was happening that Sunday. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered to himself, before remembering what the young woman had said. They wanted him and Aziraphale to go to the parade.

It took Crowley a moment to figure out why. Of course, to humans, they would look like a gay couple. It would take years to explain the complexities of occult – or celestial – gender to a mortal, and he had never bothered to try. So, for all intents and purposes, the rest of Soho saw them as gay.

Crowley harrumphed, and screwed the paper up in his hand, making a note to drop it in the next bin he saw.

* * *

Crowley was a big fan of sleeping. A few centuries earlier he had gotten into the habit of sleeping every night, and had kept it up even while living with Aziraphale, who preferred to stay awake. Sleep was one human indulgence that the angel had not taken to, although he had indulged once or twice in the early days of their new-found freedom. He had decided that sleeping took up too much time that could be spent on other tasks, such as heavenly duties, or restoring old books.

So they fell into a pattern, as beings are wont to do when they are around each other for long periods of time. Late at night, Aziraphale would settle down onto his comfiest sofa with a good book, either one of his old favourites or a new one he had managed to procure that day. Crowley would lie down with his head on Aziraphale’s lap, and doze through the night while Aziraphale read. It worked out well for both of them; immortal beings rarely needed to get up to use the lavatory, for instance, and could quite happily stay in one position for several hours at a time. They had a bed, but they preferred to use it for other activities than sleeping.1

That Friday night, they were in their customary position on the sofa. Aziraphale was starting on a new first edition he had just found, and was quite excited about. He held the book with one hand, while the other lazily stroked Crowley’s hair in his lap. Crowley had recently grown his hair out, to the shoulder-length style he had sported at the beginning of the century. This was something Aziraphale was a fan of; he enjoyed running his hands through Crowley’s long hair, like he was doing now.

But this night, Crowley was not asleep. He was pondering his encounter from earlier. He had visited a couple of pride festivals in the past, usually as part of a temptation. He hadn’t been particularly impressed; but then he had been working at the time, with little chance to stop and enjoy the atmosphere. However, there was something about them that he knew Aziraphale would love.

After a few hours of pondering, Crowley spoke. “Angel,” he said slowly.

Aziraphale paused stroking his hair to turn a page in the book. “Yes, dear?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Well done.” A pause as Crowley frowned, then, “Thinking about what?”

“Pride.”

“One of the seven deadly sins, yes.”

Crowley sighed. “Not that one. Gay pride. The festival.”

“With the rainbows? Why?”

“I think we should go along this year.”

Aziraphale’s hand stopped stroking for a second, then started again. “We’re not gay,” he reminded Crowley gently.

“To them, we are,” Crowley pointed out. “People come in here, they see us bickering, they assume we’re married.”

Aziraphale put his book down carefully on the arm of the sofa. “Well, if you will keep moving books around…”

“You can’t sort books by colour, angel, nobody will find…”

“That’s the idea! I don’t want them getting any ideas about buying…”

“This is exactly what I mean,” Crowley said. “Married.”

“Yes, but we’re not men, are we?”

“We look like them. And,” he added before Aziraphale could reply, “it’s not just about being gay, or any form of queer. It’s about celebrating love in the face of adversity. And if that doesn’t describe us, I don’t know what does.”

Aziraphale’s face softened, and he gazed down lovingly. “Oh, Crowley,” he said. “That may have been the loveliest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Shut up,” Crowley said, no menace in his tone. “Besides, you can’t say no. We’ve been invited.”

“Invited? By whom?”

“Regular customers.” Crowley summoned the flyer from the bin to his hand. He held it up for Aziraphale to see, now miraculously unwrinkled, as though it had just come off the printer.

Aziraphale took the flyer, casting a careful eye over the contents. “Regulars?”

“Two women. They come in together occasionally. One of them has an undercut.”

“An undercut?”

Rather than explain, Crowley lifted up the hair on one side of his head, running a flat palm across his skull. Where his hand passed, the hair disappeared, leaving him with a rather striking undercut.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nodded. “I know them. Perfectly pleasant couple, although they will insist on trying to buy an Oscar Wilde…”

Crowley grinned, running his hand back over his head and returning the long hair there. He looked up at his angel, batting his eyelids a little. “So, what do you say? Hundreds of people, celebrating love and identity, with lots of music. Shall we go?”

Aziraphale, looking again at the flyer. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt, just going to have a look. When is it?”

“Parade’s this Sunday, at noon.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale said, picking his book back up, “that sounds delightful.” He went back to stroking Crowley’s hair gently, suddenly engrossed back in his book.

Underneath the book spine, Crowley grinned. He was getting better at tempting Aziraphale every day.

* * *

The next day, they were on their way to pick up their morning coffees from their regular coffee shop when Crowley saw it. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand and darted sideways.

By the time Aziraphale had registered that he was no longer holding Crowley’s hand, the demon was nowhere to be seen. He stopped and frowned, looking around. A faint tendril of fear began to wrap around his chest. Had they been rumbled? Had Hell come back for them? Or worse, Heaven?

Then he heard a shout from his left. “In here, angel!”

Curious, Aziraphale followed the source of the shout into a small pound shop. He was greeted by three cramped aisles of over-filled shelves, a bored-looking cashier, and a demon wearing a rainbow wig.

The wig was garishly-coloured and frizzy, almost as large as Crowley’s head. It was placed over the top of his long hair, which stuck out from underneath like a terrible fringe. He was standing in the middle of an aisle, grinning eagerly at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale tried not to smile, but could feel the corners of his mouth twitch. “You look ridiculous,” he said.

Crowley pouted. “Really? I thought I looked rather dashing.” He pulled the wig off his head in a fluid movement and set it down on a shelf. Not the same shelf it had come from, of course. He was still a demon, after all.

On his way out of the shop, something else caught Crowley’s eye. His hand darted out and grabbed something from a display at the end of an aisle, and he deposited it on the counter in front of the cashier. “How much?”

The cashier said nothing, just gave a big sigh. She turned her gaze dramatically to indicate a large sign on the wall behind her, which proudly stated ‘Everything £1.’

Crowley looked up at the sign, then back at the cashier expectantly. “How much?” he repeated.

The cashier looked as though she would rather be anywhere else on Earth as she muttered, “It’s a pound.”

Crowley fished a coin out of his pocket that definitely hadn’t been there at the start of the discussion. “Is that why they call it a pound shop?” he asked conversationally, placing the coin on the counter.

Once again, the cashier did not reply. Instead she cast an eye over the coin, and raised one eyebrow. “That’s a euro.”

Crowley acted surprised. “Is it? Hadn’t noticed.” He fished around in his pocket some more, then pulled out a note and slapped it onto the counter. “Aha!”

The cashier sighed. “That’s an American dollar.”

“So it is. Terribly sorry.”

Crowley managed to get through three more dollars (Canadian, New Zealand, and Hong Kong) before Aziraphale, watching the interaction, took pity on the cashier. He produced a pound coin from behind Crowley’s ear and handed it to her. “Thank you, madam,” he said, grabbing Crowley’s hand and leading him from the shop.

The cashier watched them go, arms folded. She gave a deep sigh, and began to plan the resignation letter she was going to write directly after her shift.

On the footpath outside, Aziraphale tutted at Crowley. “That was hardly necessary,” he chastised.

“It was completely necessary,” Crowley argued. “That woman hated her job. She just needed one last straw to convince her to quit, which I provided.” He spread out his arms, giving a little mock-bow.

Aziraphale frowned. “How did you know?”

“I can sense it.” When Aziraphale still looked lost, Crowley elaborated. “You angels can sense love, right? Well, we have the same sense, kind of, except the opposite.”

“You can feel hatred?”

“Well, that, but other negative emotions as well. Displeasure, dissent, general disgruntledness.”

“I’m not sure that’s a word.”

“And that cashier,” Crowley continued as though not interrupted, “hated her job. I just gave her the push.”

Aziraphale looked sideways at Crowley, smiling. “That really was quite kind of you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened. It was the second time in two days Aziraphale had complimented him by calling him kind or lovely. While he enjoyed having the angel think well of him, it was difficult to let go of the lifelong habit of rejecting praise.

Aziraphale continued happily. “What did you buy?”

Crowley held out a hair ribbon, made to look as though it had been tie-dyed with a rainbow pattern. “For tomorrow,” he said, when Aziraphale didn’t reply.

“Do we really need the paraphernalia?” Aziraphale asked. “Surely it will be enough to merely show up.”

“Well, yes, but it’s a lot more fun if we dress up as well,” Crowley pointed out. “Come on, we could get you one of those wigs to wear.” He made as though he was about to walk back to the pound shop.

Aziraphale looked vaguely scandalised. “No, thank you,” he said emphatically.

“Well, we need to find something for you. Come on, look at you. A bit of colour won’t go amiss.”

He looked down at his outfit, and back up at Crowley, frowning. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”

“Nothing,” Crowley said hastily. “You look lovely, angel, you always do. But it is a bit, well, samey.”

“Samey?” Aziraphale scoffed. “That’s rich, from someone who has worn black for six thousand years.”

“That’s why I’ve got this.” Crowley held up the hair ribbon again. “Just a splash of colour. Come on, angel, it won’t hurt.”

Aziraphale considered it for a few moments. “All right,” he allowed. “One splash.”

Crowley’s grin widened, and he linked his arm with Aziraphale’s. “Perfect.”

They entered the coffee shop, Aziraphale elbowing his way in front of Crowley to make sure that he would be the one to pay, this time. They waited off to one side for their coffees, despite their order having been miraculously bumped to the top of the queue, as usual.

As they waited, Crowley became aware that Aziraphale’s jaw was clenched, and his hands were clasped in front of his stomach. He seemed to be anxious about something. “What’s up, angel?” he asked conversationally.

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said. Crowley waited. “The thing is-” Aziraphale began, but was cut off by the barista calling their order.

“One medium salted caramel frappe, extra whipped cream,” the young man said, handing the travel cup to Aziraphale, “and a large black coffee,” to Crowley. “Enjoy.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said warmly.

Crowley held the door open for Aziraphale, and they stepped out onto the street. “The thing is?” Crowley prompted, handing the black coffee over to Aziraphale.

He accepted the coffee, swapping it for the frappe as they started off for the bookshop. “The thing is,” he said hesitantly, “I’m not sure that I’m really a rainbow person.”

Crowley took a sip of his frappe, nodding in approval. “Really? Not even a splash? I mean, I know you have an aesthetic going on, but…”

Aziraphale snorted. “Of the two of us, I am hardly the one who could be accused of having ‘an aesthetic’, as you put it.”

“What’s this really about, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale took a long drink of his coffee, delaying answering the question. Crowley waited. He knew that he would explain when he was ready.

They were halfway home before Aziraphale spoke again. “Rainbows, you see. They don’t come with the best memories. Do you remember the first rainbow?”

And then it all made sense. Of course Crowley remembered the first rainbow. The almighty storm that God had sent down to punish humanity. And boy, were they punished. He could still hear the screams of the drowning. It had been the children that had really upset him. They weren’t old enough to sin, hadn’t had time to be anything but innocent. Yet they had been punished in just the same way.

But also, it had been the first time that Aziraphale had come close to questioning the Almighty, and the Ineffable Plan. When they had spoken by the Ark, Crowley had seen how uncomfortable the angel had been with the conversation. They hadn’t talked about it since, but apparently Aziraphale was still holding onto that doubt.

In the present, Crowley nodded slowly. “I do,” he said. “That didn’t even occur to me. ‘M sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked sideways, a little surprised at the apology, a rare occurrence. “Yes. Well.”

Crowley chose his next words carefully. “The point of Pride, though, is that they’ve reclaimed everything about it, including the rainbow. The words this community use to describe themselves? At some point, they’ve all been used as insults. Some still are.”

Aziraphale winced a little, remembering times when those same insults had been directed at him, over the last few centuries. He nodded.

“But they take those words,” Crowley continued, “and make them their own, and take away the power behind them. They erase the initial meaning, and give them new meanings. And they’ve done the same with the rainbow. It’s not just light shining through water, not any more. It’s a symbol of community. Of hope.”

Aziraphale looked slowly up at Crowley, his eyes softening, and Crowley could feel himself dangerously close to another compliment. He spoke quickly, hoping to evade that particular trial. “And that’s why you should wear a rainbow. To support the community.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and reached out a hand. Crowley’s own hands were occupied with his drink, so Aziraphale settled for patting his elbow. “That was very-”

Crowley cleared his throat loudly, and Aziraphale took the hint. His hand retreated. “Thank you,” he said instead, knowing that was one thing that they could freely say to each other now.

“Don’t mention it. Oh look, we’re here!” Crowley barrelled through the bookshop door, forgetting that it was locked. It let him in anyway.

* * *

Crowley stood inside the door of the bookshop. “Come _on_ , angel!” he shouted up the stairs.

“Just a minute!” the reply wafted down.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

A person came up to the bookshop, looking hopefully through the door. Crowley turned a particularly nasty look on them, and they turned tail and disappeared, looking more than a little scared.

Crowley heard footsteps down the stairs, and he turned expectantly too see Aziraphale walking down the staircase, wearing…

…Exactly what he normally wore.

Crowley cast a quick eye over Aziraphale’s familiar clothing, but nothing had changed, not a button out of place.

Aziraphale approached Crowley and seemed to notice his incredulous look. He paused, suddenly looking insecure. “What’s the matter, dear? Do I have something on my face?” He rubbed at a spot beside his mouth, where he thought he may have some jam left over from breakfast.

Crowley shook his head. “No, it’s just…you look the same.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale explained patiently. “We are immortal, dear. We don’t age, remember?”

Crowley gritted his teeth, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He loved Aziraphale, he really did, but sometimes he tested the demon’s patience. “No rainbows?”

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Aziraphale said. “It took me a while to decide what to wear. Most of the rainbow garments these days are so garish, they simply wouldn’t go with my usual attire at all.” He reached up to adjust his bowtie. When he brought his hands down, the colour had changed. Instead of his usual tartan, it was now a dappled rainbow that looked rather like a watercolour painting. The colours were pastel, muted so they fit with the rest of his outfit, but still recognisably a rainbow. “Do you think this would suffice?” he asked, looking up at Crowley, a little nervous.

A large grin spread across Crowley’s face. “Oh, angel,” he said.

“How does it look?”

Crowley clicked his fingers, and a mirror appeared in front of Aziraphale, bobbing a little in the air. Aziraphale raised his chin and gave it a good look. “Oh, I like that,” he said, smiling at Crowley.

“It’s very you,” Crowley agreed. He became aware that Aziraphale’s rainbow was larger than his own hair tie and, not to be outdone, he raised his hands to the sides of his glasses and pushed them up. When he removed his hands, the extended shades on the sides that served to hide his eyes had changed from silver to a shiny, metallic rainbow pattern.

Aziraphale gasped. “That looks lovely, my dear.”

Crowley decided that he would never get tired of being called that. He offered his elbow to the angel. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale took his arm with a warm smile. “Let’s.”

* * *

As the angel and the demon approached the streets that would be blocked off for the parade, they began to notice more and more people who were clearly heading for the same destination. First was a group of around six women, carrying a flag between them, unfolding it to reveal stripes of pink in various shades. There was a couple walking in front of them, hands in each other’s back pockets, wearing fluffy rainbow wigs from the pound shop (Crowley looked very smug when he saw them, while Aziraphale pretended not to notice). There was a teenager standing in a doorway set back from the street, glancing cautiously around themselves as they pulled out a flag of pink, white, and blue that had been carefully hidden at the bottom of a backpack. Crowley gave them a thumbs up as he passed, and the young person’s shoulders visibly relaxed as they gave a shy wave back.

As they grew nearer to the start of the parade, there was a deep bass thumping loudly, which Crowley not so much heard as felt thudding in his chest. They rounded a corner and there it was: a crowd of people mingling in the street, of all ages and sizes and shapes and colours, wearing all manner of bright and shiny clothing, accessories, flags, and so on. People living along the street had attached flags to their balconies, and there were several speakers dotted around, playing music from some radio station or other. There were a few vehicles as well, from companies eager to get their names in the middle of the festivities, as well as a fire engine. The noise was intense; as well as the speakers, everybody on the street seemed to be taking part in a contest to make their voice the loudest in the vicinity. There was laughing, shouting, joking, singing both good and bad.

It was a lot to take in all at once, and Crowley turned to grin at Aziraphale. “What do you think?”

The angel was gazing around in awe, his hand on his chest. He didn’t seem to hear Crowley’s words, but when he put his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, he turned slowly to look up at the demon. “Oh, Crowley,” he said quietly, reverently, his words carrying under the noise to his ears. “Can you feel it?”

Crowley raised an amused eyebrow. “You know I can’t,” he said. “Is there a lot of it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, looking around again at the hubbub. “It’s everywhere.”

Crowley may not have been able to sense love in the same way Aziraphale could, but he had correctly guessed from his previous experiences at pride festivals that the air would be thick with it. That had been part of his motivation in talking Aziraphale into coming along today – to see his delighted expression as he watched the crowd. Crowley couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he watched Aziraphale taking in the crowd.

Eventually the crowd began to move, and Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves swept up in the current of people. Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley’s sleeve as he felt himself being dragged along, and they held hands tightly so as not to lose each other. They’d be able to find each other easily, of course, but they wanted to experience this together.

As the parade moved along the streets, the people fanned out, some moving faster, some slower. There was more room between the groups of people, and Crowley and Aziraphale were able to walk side-by-side. Neither of them let go of the other’s hand, though. Just in case.

They had been walking for a few minutes, enjoying the atmosphere and music, when Aziraphale spoke. “Have you been to one of these before?”

“Not in London,” Crowley said, “but yes, I’ve been to a couple of these.” Strictly speaking, the first pride parade Crowley had attended had been a protest. It was nice to see the progression from that time, filled with anger and frustration, to a celebration. Although tempting had been easier at a protest.

“So you knew about the love,” Aziraphale continued.

Crowley set his jaw. He could tell where this was going, and it felt dangerously like a compliment was on the way. “I can’t feel it, angel,” he reminded Aziraphale. “But yes, I had an idea.”

“Was that why you suggested we come along?”

Crowley glanced sideways to see Aziraphale looking across at him, face filled with admiration. He couldn’t lie to Aziraphale. Unfortunately. “It may have been,” he admitted, quietly.

Aziraphale’s heart melted. “Oh, Crowley,” he said, managing to fill those two words with enough love and adoration to fill several ballads. “You really are quite ni-”

Crowley cut Aziraphale off by pulling his head to his own and planting a firm kiss on his lips. Aziraphale came to a halt, one hand coming up automatically to cup Crowley’s cheek. The noise, the crowd, the music faded away, until it was just them, lost in the kiss.

That was, until a loud whistle pierced their bliss, and reality came crashing back around them.

They looked over to see a group of young men behind them, watching and cheering. Aziraphale blushed and hid his face in Crowley’s shoulder, who just raised his other hand and gave the men a wave and a cheery wink. He was rewarded by another cheer from the group.

They kept walking for a few more minutes before arriving at the large park at the end of the area route. There were food stalls dotted around the edges of the field, and a massive stage planted at one end. It currently featured a drag queen who was strutting up and down the stage, lip-synching her heart out to Lady Gaga.

Aziraphale spotted a food van close by, and his eyes lit up. “Churros!” he said, turning to Crowley, his eyes lighting up. “Have you ever had churros from a van before, Crowley?”

“Are they any good?”

“They’re delightful.”

Aziraphale was using the puppy-dog eyes on him now, and Crowley rolled his eyes fondly. “Come on, then. Let’s get some van churros.”

They were nearly at the front of the queue when Crowley felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see two young women, grinning at him and Aziraphale. It took him a moment to realise that they were the same women who had given him the flyer for this festival in the first place. He nodded to them in greeting.

“Hi, Mr Cowley, Mr Fell. You decided to come along!”

“We did,” Crowley acknowledged.

“Was it you two who invited us here?” Aziraphale asked.

“We did,” said the one with an undercut. “It was Kamala’s idea, really.”

“I realised I’d never seen you at one of these before,” said the other woman, who was apparently called Kamala. “I mean, Mr Fell, you’re sort of…well, no offence, but everyone kind of thinks of you as the gay guardian of Soho.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot up. “Do they really?” he asked, sincerely surprised.

Not-Kamala nodded eagerly. “It was one of the first things I learned when I moved here from Cardiff,” she told them earnestly. “It’s like, here’s the gay bars, here’s the safe spots, here’s Mr Fell’s bookshop. I’m surprised nobody’s put you in a brochure yet.”

Crowley laughed out loud at that, while Aziraphale looked quietly pleased. “I wasn’t aware that I had quite the reputation,” he said.

“Oh, you definitely do,” said Kamala. “We won’t keep you any longer, we just wanted to say hi.”

“Hello, my dears,” Aziraphale said with a warm smile, “and thank you.”

Crowley nodded his goodbye, and then the women were gone.

They were at the front of the queue, so they bought their churros and found a good spot on the grass to sit. A patch of grass suddenly found itself empty, nice and close to the stage, but far enough from the speakers that they could hear each other talk.

Aziraphale brushed imaginary lint off his trousers, before pinching the knees and sitting down delicately on the grass, carefully arranging his coat around himself. He was content in the knowledge that the grass wouldn’t dream of staining his clothing. Crowley, by contrast, almost slithered down from a standing position to sprawl on the grass beside Aziraphale. “The gay guardian of Soho,” he murmured to Aziraphale, handing him one of the portions of churros.

Aziraphale looked sideways at him, trying – and failing – to hide his pleased smile. “They did say that, didn’t they? I must say, that was a surprise.”

“A good one?”

He nodded. “I wasn’t aware that I’d had quite such an effect on the community.” Now he thought about it, though, it did make sense. Over the decades his bookshop had played host to more than a few displaced young people of varying genders and orientations, most of whom had stayed for a night or two at a time, having been cast out by their families and unable to find a safe place to stay the night. Each time he had offered the comfort of his couch, the contact of a safe space for them to move to, and although none of them knew it, the security of his angelic grace sheltering them from harm for the night. He hadn’t necessarily noticed the connection between those he had helped at the time, but looking back, it seemed glaringly obvious. He was more than a little pleased at his apparent title, not that he would tell anyone.

Crowley, however, snorted. “Seriously?” Aziraphale looked at him blankly, and Crowley frowned. “Wait, did you really not know?”

“Know what?”

“Maybe you can’t feel it. How good are you at sensing angelic presence?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “All ethereal or occult creatures have the same feeling to me. I’m afraid I can’t tell the difference between you and…Gabriel,” he offered as a random suggestion, and immediately regretted it.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Well, I can sense when there’s an angel nearby. It’s a defence mechanism, or something, I suppose. Being around you for so long, I guess I’ve gotten used to the feel of you, specifically.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, and Crowley ducked his eyes. He continued. “And when I walk around Soho? You’re everywhere, angel. All I can feel is you, your grace. Your…influence, I suppose.”

Aziraphale had a hand over his chest as he gazed at Crowley. “Really? That’s lovely.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Eat your churros, they’ll get cold.”

They both knew that the churros would do no such thing, but Aziraphale took an obedient bite nonetheless. His eyes lit up at the taste.

“Good?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Divine.”

“I hope not,” Crowley said, and tried some of his own. Luckily, it wasn’t literally divine, but it did taste very good.

They watched the performance on stage contentedly. After a few minutes, Crowley became aware that Aziraphale was looking at him, rather than the stage. “What’s up, angel?” he asked, eyes still on the performer.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I was just thinking…it doesn’t matter.”

Crowley turned his full attention on him. “No, what is it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted around for a moment. “I was just thinking,” he began, “about what you were saying, that you could feel my influence around the bookshop.”

He nodded.

“And,” Aziraphale continued, “the fact that you brought me here because you knew I would sense the love in the atmosphere, although you couldn’t feel it yourself.”

“Angel,” Crowley said warningly, “if this is you working you way up to calling me a four letter word…”

“Not quite, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him. “Can you feel me right now?”

He frowned. “Of course, I can, I’m sitting right next to you.”

“Close your eyes for a moment.”

Crowley was still frowning, but he obeyed.

“Focus on that ethereal feeling for me?”

Crowley took a breath, focusing his senses. The sounds and smells of the crowd dwindled away to nothing. The feeling of grass under his corporation faded until he was in a void. The only things that existed were his essence and the heavenly grace beside him.

As he concentrated, the feeling grew larger. Every instinct told him to fight, to lash out against the angelic grace; but he suppressed it, focusing instead on probing it, feeling around the edges. It grew larger, and warmer, like a tight embrace. It felt

It felt

It felt like a musty old bookshop

Like well-aged wine

Like worn waistcoats and tartan bowties

Like soft feathers

Like a smile across a table

Like a twinkle in a soft blue eye

Like home

Like Aziraphale

All he could feel was Aziraphale, wrapping around him and infusing his very core.

It felt glorious.

A voice floated into his consciousness, soft and low. “Do you feel it?”

His corporation nodded.

“Come back to me,” said the voice.

He let go, and felt himself float to the surface. The rest of the world faded back in existence, the hubbub of the crowd, the music from the speakers, the hard ground beneath him. He slowly opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s face floating in front of his own, one hand on Crowley’s chest.

“What could you feel?” Aziraphale asked.

“You,” Crowley said. His voice felt hoarse, as though he hadn’t used it in a long time, although he knew that not much more than a minute could have passed. “Only you. Like an embrace.”

Aziraphale smiled. “That’s what love feels like.”

Crowley looked up at him in wonder.

“Red wine, soft feathers, dark suits, golden eyes, sharp teeth…that’s what love feels like to me,” Aziraphale said. “It always has. For as long as I can remember.”

Crowley was almost speechless. He said the only thing he could bring to mind. “I love you.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “I love you, too.” He turned around so he was beside Crowley again, huddled into his side.

“One thing, though,” Crowley said. “Sharp teeth? Really?”

Aziraphale chuckled, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “They’re part of you, my dear.”

Crowley smiled, and pressed a kiss into Aziraphale’s fluffy hair. He leaned his head on top of the angel’s. “I love you,” he said again, revelling in the fact that they were finally allowed to admit it out loud. “And I’ll tell that to anyone who comes asking. God herself could knock on our door, and I’ll shout it in Her face.”

“I’m not sure that She technically has a face for you to shout in.”

“Don’t spoil the moment, angel.”

“I apologise, my dear.”

They sat there, in the middle of the first of many Pride celebrations they would attend over the next few decades, arms around each other, at peace. As Crowley had pointed out, Pride is a time to celebrate love triumphing over those who would ban it, and those who are together despite greater forces trying to keep them apart. And there are few better ways to describe the love story of the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale.

In other words, they were right where they belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Pillow fights. Obviously. Why, what did you expect this footnote to say? Return to text


End file.
